


Redux

by Fang (fang_writes)



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet Ending, Fix-It, Gibson's Real Name Is Philippe Hugo Guillet, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 10:30:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18119000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fang_writes/pseuds/Fang
Summary: His voice is soft, his expression guilty. Tommy doesn’t understand anything butmerci. He’s being thanked. He doesn’t know what to think about that. In reality, Tommy just paid back the favor, and he feels he still owes Philippe one.





	Redux

**Author's Note:**

> Nope, I'm not in denial or anything. This is totally how it actually happened.

Adrenaline makes his heart pound in his ears as he exits the sinking Dutch trawler. The Highlanders forced him first out for daring to defend the French soldier. His nametag said _Gibson_ , though it was stolen off a dead Englishman. One that Tommy himself had helped bury in their first meeting. Yet he could hardly fault the man for wanting to escape this terrible situation, especially when the French were being explicitly left behind. Especially when that man had previously saved his life twice over— _and Alex’s_ , he thought bitterly.

In his peripheral he spots a destroyer, and Tommy is all ready to bail and swim out to it, taking his chances in the Channel, when _something_ makes him halt in place. He hovers in the water close to the boat.

With a Spitfire hot on its tail, the odious Stuka speeds towards the other ship, seeing as its job was done sinking the rusty fishing boat to the briny depths. The Highlanders pile out one by one and frantically swim past him. Last of all was Alex. Their eyes meet for a split second as he passes by. It hits him. _Where was Gibson?_ He didn’t see him while observing everyone leave.

Tommy realizes that something must’ve went wrong. A large part of his rational brain thought this was outrageous and stupid of him to do but somehow, he manages to swim back to the sinking vessel. By now the deck is almost completely underwater. He takes a deep breath and forces himself down into the open manhole. It was as he feared, Gibson was trapped, struggling hard, and was very much in danger of drowning right before his eyes.

Tommy kicks past Gibson’s squirming body and feels around his leg. They were tangled in the rough nets a fisherman uses to catch masses of fish. At first he tries to pry them off, but Gibson’s left leg is caught too tightly in the mesh. Unable to tug them off and rapidly running out of breath, Tommy takes out the small army knife strapped to his belt and starts hacking at the rope. They were dangerously low on time. Heart thudding in his chest, he slashes his way through as much of the net around Gibson’s leg as he could. He wasn’t delicate. It didn’t matter when he, let alone Gibson, had so little air. Finally, it came loose. He saws his way through the last bit before grabbing Gibson’s arm and pulling him free.

They head towards the ladder as the ship continues to submerge. Tommy lets Gibson up, guiding him up the manhole, then follows close behind.

Breaking the surface first, Gibson sputters, coughing and hacking out the water that no doubt he had inhaled a lot of. Tommy tries his best to keep him above the water; the waves gently rocking them back and forth. He thumps on Gibson’s back to just make sure it’s all has gone out.

Tommy places his hand on Gibson’s shoulder and leans into his ear, “You okay?” he shouts over the noise and chaos.

Gibson may be French but he seemed to understand and nods, swallowing and breathing hard.

Tommy returns the gesture and points towards the destroyer, “Let’s go.”

They take off towards the ship where many men are still attempting to board. They’re halfway there before Gibson stops him, almost violently pulls him back by the arm.

“Wha—” seconds later Tommy notices the oil creeping towards them with more pouring out by the moment. The Stuka circles around, peppering more shots into the destroyer. It lets out its signature wail as it dives down. He and Gibson duck back under water as it showers bombs all around them. They wait to stop feeling the whistle of the bombs darting past in the water, landing far too close for comfort. After staying under for as long their lungs could handle, they resurface.

Inevitably, the destroyer had started to sink. The men aboard abandoned ship, though many were too late. Tommy couldn’t believe his luck today. “ _Shit_.” Gibson taps his shoulder and points in the other direction. He turns around and sees small ships, what look like pleasure yachts and sailboats, heading their way. With one final glance at each other, they start swimming towards them.

At last they reach the closest yacht. Gibson is worse for wear due to nearly drowning, so Tommy pushes him in front to ensure he’s pulled up first. The blond boy helping the soldiers grasps his arm to pull him up too, but before he could be dragged aboard, the boat abruptly moves.

Tommy couldn’t breathe.

He could only hear a muffled explosion—feel it scorch the water nearby—and a multitude of terrified screams under the blanket of liquid. The water floods past his nostrils as the boat picks up speed. He felt as though he were floating through a fast-moving current, swept away and utterly helpless. He thought this is what Gibson might’ve felt down in the trawler. The only thing that gave him hope was the tight grip on his wrist. At least his body would be brought back home.

Then he surfaced, and it was over.

He gulps in deep breaths as he is promptly hoisted up. The blond boy was still there but he felt another hand grasp his other arm. It was Gibson. Together they help him onto the deck. He lay there flat on his back for a while, catching his breath and trying to process what happened.

 _“Take me home,”_ he says out loud to no one in particular.

Gibson kneels down by his side, and his expression is elated. It looked like he was on the verge of tears. His hand is still gripping Tommy’s and it squeezes hard.

Tommy smiles at him reassuringly. His gaze drifts off past Gibson to see the blond boy behind him. He has a slightly puzzled look on his face but after noticing Tommy looking at him, gives a small nod and heads off to tend to the other soldiers.

Gibson helps Tommy up and they stand up on the small upper deck, passing by a sharply dressed RAF pilot. They’re given bright orange life-preservers before an older man with greying hair, presumably this ship’s captain, ushers them and some other soldiers down below decks. Despite the face covered in tar, he recognizes Alex sitting on the opposite side of the cabin with a glum face. Alex notices him and seems surprised yet somewhat relieved to see Gibson by his side. Tommy gives a nod of acknowledgement, and Alex gives one back.

The pair of them squeeze even closer, pressed together tight as more men, more stragglers, are brought on board. Gibson’s fingers ghosts over Tommy’s, and he interlaces them together behind their backs, brushes his thumb against the back of Gibson’s hand. Tommy’s pulse beats loud in his ears. If the soldiers next to them noticed anything, they didn’t care. They were all lost in their own minds.

At some point, Alex gets up and walks towards them. They let go of each other’s hands as he approaches. “Let’s go up,” he says at Tommy. “Get a glimpse of home.”

They head upstairs, and Gibson trails after them. The boy, who they now know is Peter and is currently piloting the boat, almost stops them, but they’re able to convince him for just a look. Tommy feels a rush of warmth at the sight of the white Dorset cliffs, and he and Alex exchange excited grins. Then he notices Gibson, as silent as ever but with a pained, far-off look on his face. Tommy remembers that while he may be going back home, Gibson has left his behind. Drawing him out of his thoughts, he puts a hand on Gibson’s shoulder and forces out a smile as reassuring as he could muster. It turned out to be more strained than he intended. Gibson doesn’t return it but he looks a little less melancholy. After a few minutes of gazing at their home terrain, Peter insists, so they head back down again.

It’s dark by the time they reach land. The air is cold but still. Steam comes off the train in wisps. Almost as soon as they exit the boat, toast and tea and blankets are offered. Alex goes ahead, but Tommy stops a moment to take it in and allows the old blind man feels his face as he grabs a blanket. A foreigner on this land, Gibson keeps his distance, continuing to blend in with the mass of evacuees.

He rejoins Tommy to board the train together. Tommy finds Alex and sits across from him. He can sense that Gibson is hesitant to sit with Alex, but seeing the oddly intense expression on Tommy’s face, Alex just shrugs. It’s a promise to keep his mouth shut. Gibson takes his place next to Tommy. They settle into a long deep sleep, one that Tommy feels he never got while at Dunkirk.

Daytime has arrived when they wake up next. At a brief pit stop, Alex accosts a local boy to get him an apple and the newspaper. He starts to read, but stops abruptly, “Can’t bear it.” With an anguished look, he hands off the paper to Tommy. “You read it.”

“Can’t bear it?”

“They’ll be spitting at us in the streets. If they’re not locked up waiting for the invasion.”

Tommy starts reading out loud Churchill’s speech. A man outside interrupts him and knocks on their window to hand Alex beers. Outside, the crowd of civilians cheer. It seems to lift Alex’s mood that they’re getting some support. Beside him, Gibson reads along the paper, looking for any mentions of the French forces. Tommy’s not sure how much he understands, but the look on his face is incredibly sober. As inspiring as the speech sounds, it rings a little hollow to Tommy and fills him with dread. After all his fortune brushing with death multiple times during the hell-like conditions of Dunkirk, he knows he’ll be back in the thick of it in no time without any choice.  _Wars are not won by evacuations_. And there’s no telling how long this war will go on. The fight’s not over. As for Gibson, his whole damn country is as good as forfeit. He wants so badly to offer some comfort to the man, but it wouldn’t be such a wise idea to do so in plain sight.

At last, they reach their destination in Surrey. There’s an officer outside who tells them they have a week of leave before they’re required to report back to their local recruitment center. Alex immediately heads for an obscure, dingy bar with Tommy and Gibson in tow. It’s not empty but seeing as it’s midday, it’s not very full either. The decor is dated and the whole place is a little musty but nobody really cares. Alex lets the owner know they’re evacuated soldiers from Dunkirk, so drinks end up being on the house.

Sitting at the bar, Gibson has yet to say a word. He drinks forlornly while Alex goes off to mingle with the locals. Tommy is glad that he and Gibson can finally get some privacy, but he’s also getting concerned. “Are you alright?” he mutters and puts a hand on Gibson’s shoulder, still clothed in the British uniform.

Gibson stares at him for a long moment then shakes his head honestly. Then with a sudden sense of urgency, his eyes go wide and he gestures for a pen, mimicking the motion of writing across his palm.

Tommy ponders if he can write in English as he retrieves a pen from the bartender. Gibson wanders around in search of some paper before tearing off a page in the booth’s phonebook. Writing on it for a few minutes, he folds the paper and slides it into his pocket.

Before Tommy could inquire about it, Gibson grabs his wrist and leads him to the bar’s toilet. He checks if it’s empty. It is. The door squeaks shut, and the lock clicks as it is twisted closed behind them. For the first time since the trawler and the second time ever since they’ve met, he speaks, still in French, “ _Mon nom… est Philippe Guillet._ ” Tommy is strangely taken aback, hearing it for the first time. He had gotten so used to thinking of him as _Gibson_ , he temporarily forgot that it wasn’t his real name. For a moment he feels a sense of shame, but it’s overtaken by happiness that he knows the truth. It felt so satisfying to definitively know.

Gibson’s—no, _Philippe’s_ —hands come to rest on Tommy’s shoulders and give a gentle squeeze. “ _Merci d’être revenu pour moi. Je dois y aller maintenant. J’ai assez trahi mon pays._ ” His voice is soft, his expression guilty. Tommy doesn’t understand anything but _merci_. He’s being thanked. He doesn’t know what to think about that. In reality, Tommy just paid back the favor, and he feels he still owes Philippe one.

He opens his mouth to claim that no, _Philippe_  was the one who deserved thanks, but before he could get a word out, he’s drawn into a tight hug. Tommy’s mind goes blank and he embraces him resolutely, feeling tears prick at the corner of his eyes. Philippe eases back and glances around once more to check if they’re alone before leaning in, slowly. He scrutinizes Tommy’s face, glances down at his lips then back at his eyes, making sure he’s not reading this wrong. When Tommy doesn’t pull away, he presses a brief, chaste kiss to his lips. It felt far too inadequate. Tommy clutches at the lapels of his stolen uniform, yanking Philippe back for another—

 _BANG!_ The restroom door shudders on its hinges. The sound of a loud, muffled, drunk voice on the other side has them apart in a split second.

Gibson sighs and smooths himself out, “Goodbye, Tommy.” His accent is thick yet understandable. The look in his eyes is heartbroken but determined. He takes Tommy’s hand, turns it facing up, and lays down the folded paper on his palm before gently closing his fingers back over it. The touch lingers only for a moment.

Then he’s gone and Tommy is left alone. The drunk man outside doesn’t even spare him a look as he stumbles past into an empty stall. Tommy scrambles out of the shabby restroom, reeling with emotion. Finds his way back to the bar on unsteady legs. For a few minutes, he sits there in disbelief at the encounter. At how quickly it was all over. Gradually, he unclenches his fist and places the now slightly wrinkled paper on the marble surface.

Tommy carefully opens it to find graceful handwriting in surprisingly good English. There was his full name, followed by a number, an address, a workplace, his regiment and rank, and lastly, a message:

_Find me after the war._

He orders another drink.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation for what Philippe said at the end: _Thank you for coming back for me. I must go now. I have betrayed my country enough._ I don't know French, so I had to use an online translator. 
> 
> Took me long enough to finish this. It was half written, then put on hiatus for a month before I went back and finished it in a few days.


End file.
